Any Which Way

Leaving is always hard. It’s not that I fear the open road. I don’t fear the unknown. On the contrary. That’s why I travel. That’s why I travel by bike. But no matter how much I know I will love the freedom and the new experiences, leaving what you know (and in this case, have come to enjoy a little too much) is still difficult.

Once I put my foot on the pedal and press down, overcome the friction holding me back, the hardest part it over. After that, so long as I keep my legs in motion, the inertia slowly builds up and the momentum keeps me going. It is then easier to just keep pedalling.

Well, having broken through the barrier of leaving the OK Inn gates, I made it to only a second roundabout when I encountered a ‘route barre’ sign and had to deviate from the obvious way out of town. It wasn’t the wind this time that was making leaving difficult. It was having to navigate without guidance – which way now?

I went round in circles. Metaphorically speaking. There was nothing circular about my route. Remember studying Brownian motion in science at school? – There I was, a grain floating on water, moving first in one direction, then another, then another. Apparently random movement. But actually being acted upon by external forces. I would cycle down one road until, perhaps, I reached a junction and maybe I would turn right. Then I would be cycling west, the general direction I wanted. I would stop to ask the way and would be pointed in another direction. So that way I would go. But then I’d notice most of the traffic going along another route – was I the only one unsure of where to go? Perhaps I should go with the flow. And so it went on. Random motion. Eventually all these random motions resulted in the net effect of me reaching the outskirts of town. Miraculously (it seemed to me) on the right side of town on the right road.

Once on the road to Bobo-Dioulasso, life got easy. One road, one way. From Ouaga to Bobo. Just pedal. So I did.

A Town Like Any Other

Nearly 100km from Ouaga I entered Sabou. Another one of those nondescript towns whose name I would have forgotten had it not been one of the few on the map and one of the fewer I wrote into my journal. From passing the ‘entering town’ sign, the frequency of roadside stalls increases until there is no space between them. The spread then continues, not just along the road but away from it also. It is then called the market. That’s when you have reached the town centre. Usually there is a space nearby where the buses and taxis congregate, hawkers on the sharp lookout for business. This is the gare routiere. If you continue on the same road, the frequency of the stalls decreases until there are none. Then you have reached the other edge of town. To confirm this you’ll pass the ‘exiting town’ sign. This is simply an ‘entering town’ sign with a thick red line scored through the town’s name.

I only got as far as the town centre. Half-way. Stopping to buy food and refill my water bottles. For water I was directed to a campement. I didn’t leave. Not until the following morning at least. Cheap camping where I could shower and eat and relax was more appealing than the bush.

Going With The Wind

The second day was a good day on the road. The morning flew by, on the road. The afternoon flew by, in a bar. I hit the road once more as the temperature dropped. Life was good. I was feeling strong. I was speeding along. The miles just disappeared and my speed just kept going up. How could it be so easy?

I soon came into the large village of Ouahibou and was surprised to see channels of dust and debris being whipped along the dirt road running parallel to the tarmac I was travelling down. Women were running to houses, clutching skirt with one hand, headscarf with the other. Rubbish swirled around the compounds, sweeped high into the air. It was only then that I realised how strong the wind must be. To me, on the move, I felt nothing. A strange stillness. It was as if I was inside a glass vacuum, protected from the elements. I was free-wheeling effortlessly while the world around me was in disarray.

In this region, the wind is a fore-runner to a storm. Indeed the ominous, dark clouds were gathering behind me. I pulled into a shack-cum-bar and chatted to the pre-teen tender, planning to sit out the storm in this not-very-sturdy-but-at-least-has-a-roof shelter.

I watched trucks pass. I watched trucks stop. The drivers covering the rooftop luggage with plastic sheets before continuing their journey. They too were preparing for the storm.

The air was electric. Alive. People were uneasy. The wind continued unabated but the there was no rain.

I could not sit still. Having complained so bitterly about the harmattan headwinds, why was I now sat motionless when the strongest tailwind was blowing. What’s a little rain anyway? I got back on the bike.

I travelled fast. Fast until dusk. I found a place to pitch the tent. Sheltered by some small trees on the edge of a small depression.

A Storm Like No Other

No sooner was I in the tent than all fury let loose. The wind howled, ripping the tent first one way, then the other. The rain lashed down. Relentless. Having secured the tent as best I could and made sure everything I wanted to stay dry would, I lay down and tried to sleep.

I awoke late in the night as the storm passed overhead. Flashes illuminating my two-man tent world, strobe lighting at a disco. In between, the darkness returned, each time blacker than before. A thunderous crash came from everywhere all at once. Explosive. Striking right to my very core. It then rumbled and grumbled on, shaking my insides. Eventually my heart-rate would slow, the pounding on my chest would subside. But then another almighty flash, and crash and rip and roar. And rain drummed on the tent and pounded the ground, drowning all other sounds.

Later in the night I woke again. Pitch black. The storm had abated and left a gentler rain to fall. I looked out and saw no longer a depression but a small lake. With the accumulated water came frogs. Lots of them. Croaking with the ferocity and persistence of the storm which had finally passed.

I drifted in and out of sleep. Eventually, one time I opened my eyes, I could discern the features of the inside of my tent. It was getting light, slowly. In the damp air I emerged, ate breakfast and packed up. The start of a new day. More pedalling.

I had never experienced so close the full force of a thunderstorm. It was immense. Intense. Electrifying. Simply awesome.

It is the beginning of the rainy season here. There have since been more deluges and electric blue skies. It was just a tropical rainstorm afterall. I never knew it could rain so much in so little time.

Thank you, EU

Tired I may have been – The eyes-sore sleepy-tired from too little sleep kind. But I was feeling strong. It was as if some of the energy from the previous night’s showdown was now stored within me. Coursing through my veins. Muscles twitching in anticipation. Awaiting vigorous release.

It’s not often I feel this fired up.

The wind was still blowing strong too. Blowing the same way I was going.

I pedalled. I travelled fast.

At times like this, it’s hard to believe science alone can create such forces. Me and the world were working together… with a helping hand from the EU. I shall explain.

‘For your safety and comfort this road has been financed by the EU. 2008′, I was regularly informed on large boards.

For my comfort – yes. For my safety – I’m not so sure. A new road does not improve the roadworthiness of the vehicles travelling along it. It does not make better drivers. It does allow decrepit vehicles with bad drivers to speed ever faster.

Wheezing Donkeys

I made 150km that day. I’d not covered such a daily distance since crossing the Sahara. I made it all the way to Bobo-Dioulasso. It was easy. Except for the last hill into town.

Bottom gear. Slowly slowly.

I passed a stream of carts overloaded with wood. Three donkeys to a cart. The poor beasts laboured loudly. Wheezing. Near exhaustion. Even standing still on the steep hill was too hard. This was the first time on this trip I have seen animals being overworked. Their drivers would beat them forcefully with a large stick once they had ‘rested’ a while. But these donkeys weren’t lazy. They were too little and their load too large.

If the donkeys could reach the top, I certainly could. As I passed the carts I decided I would do so without stopping. Sweating profusely I made it. I did wish that I hadn’t so eagerly bought a bagful of mangoes earlier. The extra weight was telling. And I knew there would be plenty more for sale in Bobo. But it’s hard to pass a bargain.

A Mini-Tour

I rested a day in Bobo. I ate the mangoes I had bought and carried up the hill into town. I slept in my tent under the mango tree in the ‘Casa Africa’ compound. Coals and Newcastle. Mangos and Bobo.

I went shopping – new flip-flops and tops.

A pleasant tour - the road to Sindou

I wanted to see some of the surrounding area. So I went for a three day tour on the bike, via Banfora and Sindou. This region of southwest Burkina Faso is markedly greener than the landscapes I have traversed the last couple of months. The sandy, arid, dusty, dry, hot, bare sahel of northern Burkina and Mali has been transformed into lush, green, dense, vivid, cool, wet, tropical forest. I wanted to see more. I relished the change.

After three days I returned to Bobo. And from there I cycled another three days to the Ghana border.

There was more rain. But the storms were like a kitten’s purr to the lion’s roar of the storm I camped through on the way to Bobo. The riverbeds no longer dry, now flowed bright mud-orange.

There were calls of ‘Toubab’ and ‘Le blanc’. Changing accents making it sound anything from ‘lair blank’ to ‘ler bloc’. One call even of ‘Blonde a la velo’. That one made me smile.

There were mosquitoes and flies and ants and spiders and caterpillars. Beautiful butterflies and birds of prey.

I loved being on the road, meeting new people. As far as it’s possible to categorise a country, Burkina Faso is a friendly nation. Everywhere I went, friendly people. A country is nothing without the people who live there. I remember places by the people I meet. I will remember good times in Burkina Faso.

Sindou Peaks

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http://takeonafrica.com/updates/tour-de-burkina-faso-%e2%80%93-my-way/feed/3OK in Ouagadougouhttp://takeonafrica.com/updates/ok-in-ouagadougou/
http://takeonafrica.com/updates/ok-in-ouagadougou/#commentsFri, 07 May 2010 10:54:40 +0000Helen Lloydhttp://takeonafrica.com/?p=1222I spent two weeks in Ouaga. Camping in the car-park of the OK Inn Hotel. Sandwiched between a truck park and the hotel reception. Doesn’t sound so OK. But what more do you need when camping than a flat piece of ground in the shade? Not much. Included in the free camping was use of the toilet, shower and swimming pool. The hotel had a quality restaurant and bar. French in taste (appearance and culinary) and service. Friendly, enthusiastic, hard-working staff on hand to bring an ice-cold beer to the idle, lazy white woman on the sunbed. After the second day I only had to walk into the restaurant shortly after sunrise and a pain-au-chocolat, coffee and large glass of ice water was laid on the table by the sofa under the air-conditioning – my spot.

It was like being on an all-inclusive package holiday. I imagine. I’ve never been on a package holiday. I had no reason to leave the hotel grounds. So I didn’t (Except occasionally to buy mangoes and nuts to keep my hunger at bay and to get my Ghana visa.) That’s what a package holiday means to me.

I can now return to England and boast that I have travelled to and seen Burkina Faso – ‘It was wonderful. Hot and sunny. The afternoon dip in the pool sublime. The beer. The gourmet food. You should go.’ Rose-tinted glasses some may say. Or just plain blinkers.

Ironically, with those two weeks at the OK Inn, I HAVE seen Burkina Faso.

It is in complete contrast to my usual day-in day-out cycling through West Africa. Camping in the wild. Getting water in villages. Eating at street-side cafes with the locals. Resting in town in a cheap hotel. With this travel I see rural life. I see the developing world and it is easy to believe in the official figures that the country is one of the poorest in the world and see little beyond them.

But the statistics do not show the whole story. They do not show you the success stories – for there are many: The charismatic manager, proud and fair. They do not show you the drive and ambition of young, hard-working professionals: The part-time security guard working while preparing for his exams for entry into a Government career. They do not show you the lives of the burgeoning middle-class.: Happy families, out for Sunday lunch and swim. Doting or pushy parents who enrol their children in all available activities: Swimming lessons. Then of course are the rest of the hard-working staff, taking pride in their job and looking forward to the weekend when they can go out on the town – beer and bars and clubs.

Laying on a sunbed by the hotel pool was like looking through a window to another world. Maybe not another world, but a vision to surroundings more familiar back in Europe. This is the vision that many Burkinabe’s strive for. This is the vision that many Burkinabe’s have achieved. Not so different from England.

I have now seen two sides to the country. (There are always two sides to a country.) A rich and a poor. A motivated many and disillusioned few.

Leaving Mali was tougher than I thought. Not due to any particular attachment, although I did enjoy my time there. It was the wind and the rough, corrugated, roads. Mostly the wind though. It tried it’s hardest to blow me right back into Mali, even after I’d got the Burkina Faso entry stamped permanently in my passport.

This was the toughest section of cycling in a long time. I thought about getting a lift. Thankfully nobody offered me a ride. I may have been tempted. Instead, I fought the headwind, crawled slowly onward, stopped several times every hour, ate another mango, avoided another tornado.

Tornado Trouble

Scores of little tornadoes crossed my path. Columns of dust and debris marched slowly across the desolate landscape. Their path predetermined by the direction of the wind, they were easy to avoid. Except for the one that crept upon me while I was devouring yet another mango, sheltering in the shade of a tree. Unnoticed until it was too late, the wind whipped up the dust and covered me and my mango with grit and sand. I hadn’t the energy to move out of it’s way. Only to hide my face in my shirt and keep my eyes and mouth firmly shut. As quickly as it had attacked, it passed. Continuing it’s journey overland the tornado went unhindered one way; I went the other, slower.

I spent the second afternoon resting under a tree on the Mali side, sheltering from the relentless, piercing sun. It was too hot to cycle. It was too hot to do much at all. We all sat in the shade – villagers, border police and me. As the air cooled, I continued until after a hundred kilometre day of cycling brought me to the Burkina Faso frontier.

Burkina Faso Frontier

Three men sat outside an isolated building. It was a large building, painted pink. Definitely a government office. As confirmation, a flag with a small yellow star centred on a red and green background stood to attention in the wind. I got my stamp as dusk drew in. I rested. We talked. ‘I’m going to like Burkina Faso’, I though. I asked if I could sleep there. ‘Of course’ was the reply and the youngest man disappeared only to return minutes later with a bucket of water. The shower did nothing to revive my energy. It did at least clean me a little. I laid to rest and was asleep in the time it took the chicken pecking ants from the ground to be caught, killed and cooked.

Awake with the first rooster’s call, I hit the road as daylight approached. Still a long ride to reach the tarmac road. I reached Ouahigouya in time for lunch. I enquired after a good place to go for lunch. I was directed to “l’Auberge”. Not a hostel as the name may suggest. But a bar, as the yellow diamond sign advertising Flag beer, at the entrance, implied.

Flag but no Flag

I first encountered Flag beer in St. Louis, Senegal. I rather liked it. This was fortunate since it was the most widely available beer in Senegal. Outside of Senegal, Flag beer is advertised even more extensively. But if there’s one thing I’ve learnt in my time in West Africa, it’s this: what a sign says does not relate in the slightest to what is actually possible.

The prominent yellow diamond Flag sign does mean you are entering a bar. It does mean you can buy beer. It does not mean you can buy Flag beer. In all likelihood, you can’t. If you can, you’ve probably stumbled back into Senegal.

Friday Beer

Inside l’Auberge was a dark, dank bar. Outside, round the back, was a pleasant enough yard with seating and tables each separated by a woven mat temporary wall. Crates of empty glass bottles lay stacked in disarray, waiting for collection. I saw a thin man tending a grill, beef freshly cut waiting to be cooked. I ordered food and a coke. There was one thing on the menu that day – beef (and it really was beef). I ordered beef and rice. A dish of beef in a onion and tomato sauce arrived with three cocktail sticks. No rice though. No rice available, but I could have bread. Having debated whether to use the cocktail sticks like mini chopsticks or to stab each chunk of beef one at a time, I opted for pouring it all into the baguette which eventually arrived and devouring it like a steak sandwich. Sauce dripped messily over the plastic table cloth.

I was sat with three locals. It was Friday afternoon and work was finished for the weekend. They were drinking a Brakina beer before, presumably, returning home to the family. Opposite, on another table sat a large, loud, obtuse man in a cowboy hat. He could not handle his beer. I was pleased to be in the company of the three gentlemen who told me to ignore the idiot, just as they were.

Confusing Signs

I passed several small villages on entering Burkina Faso. I may never have known the names of these villages if I hadn’t turned round to look. Usually you pass a sign with the village’s name on entering and another, with a red diagonal line through it on leaving. But these signs were only put in place for people already in Burkina Faso. If, like me, you were entering from Mali, the village was unmarked. Instead, when you saw the back of a sign on entering a village you had to turn back and see which village you would be leaving had you been travelling in the other direction. Did they not want Malians to know where they were? Like an ineffective equivalent of WW2 blackouts?

After Ouahigouya, safely in Burkina Faso, the village signs appeared. For an unknown reason, the village name was now printed twice on each sign. Once in CAPITALS. Once in lower case. I cannot fathom why.

Cattle graze, cattle’s gaze

I camped that night in the bush, trees and scrub sparsely covering the dusty land. I awoke in the night to rustling. Familiar now with many bush sounds, this I identified as cattle slowly moving and grazing. Cows are curious animals. Slowly, they circled closer and closer to my tent. Unable to ignore the persistent noise, I emerged from my cocoon, head-torch beaming. I was shocked to see devilish horned silhouettes. Fiery eyes illuminated, glaring back at me. Only cattle though. I shooed them away.

More concerning were the smaller illuminated eyes, at ground level. Spiders. They could stay there. I got back in my tent. I vowed never to forget to zip my tent up again.

Le Tour

I arrived into Ouagadougou early morning. Arrived with the taxis, motorbikes, carts. With people opening stores, arranging clothes stalls, drinking morning coffee, calls of ‘bienvenue’.

I passed several skinny men in tight lycra outfits pedalling on skinny racing bikes. A common sight in Europe perhaps. But this is West Africa. But this is Burkina Faso and cycling here is not just a means of getting from A to B. It is a popular sport. France has it’s Tour de France. Burkina Faso has it’s Tour de Burkina Faso. Where France has hills to challenge, Burkina Faso has heat. Lots of it.

I am doing my own tour of Burkina Faso, in my own time. I have plenty of time. That’s why I spent two weeks in Ouaga, as Burkina Faso’s capital is affectionately known.